


Like A Book Elegantly Bound

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: All Animals Are Sentient AU, Cannibalism, F/M, M/M, Murder, Stalking, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, Written before Beaks in the Shell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Gyro is jealous of Fenton's love for a traitorous felon, so he decides to do something about it.
Relationships: Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gandra Dee, Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 34
Kudos: 19





	Like A Book Elegantly Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fic you wanted but it’s the fic you’re getting.
> 
> Had to push to get this one out in time for tomorrow Fandra episode

The housewarming party wraps up at around ten.

Overall, the tedious experience wasn’t one that Gyro would call entirely pleasurable. Even at the best of times, he does not consider himself a sociable person – the majority of the world’s inhabitants can be described as impressively mediocre. There had been an almost clique-like mentality concerning the guests at the party, a side product of the eclectic combination of individuals, and most of the attendees had branched off to socialize within their select groups. There had been the ex-classmates and the new co-workers and the family, the normal guests one would expect at these sorts of parties, but also the eccentric rich family and the rambunctious teenagers and the superheroes in (unconvincing) disguise.

And then there had been Gyro, standing in the corner, nursing a glass of cheap wine as he picked at sweating Costco-brand cheese slices laid out on glass platters across the buffet table, trying to project a dark aura of anti-social curmudgeon so as to deter any small talk from his colleagues. Except when Fenton finally graced him with his presence, the one highlight of the evening, it was merely to request he join in on their game of _Cranium_. The “their” in question had been the teenagers, all home for the summer from their respective colleges, and he had been stuck with the green nephew as his partner of all people. They had lost, horribly, and Fenton and the red nephew had won, barely beating out the lesbian couple that Gyro usually refers to as the pink one and the magic one.

There had never been a chance of them winning. If it hadn’t been Fenton or the lesbians it would have been the blue nephew and the purple girl. He had really only been dragged along because the green nephew needed a partner but games like this demand a melding of the minds. Code words, inside jokes, a history between two individuals. If Fenton had been his partner instead they could have wiped the floor with those teenagers but perhaps the duck hadn’t wanted to beat a handful of kids so soundly.

The game seemed to end before Gyro even realized they were losing. Just like that, Fenton had to make himself scarce once more, off to spend time with his old classmates, which left Gyro not merely alone but stuck on his own in the presence of a bunch of college kids feeling about as ancient and pathetic as he’s felt in his entire life. He didn’t even understand half the words they had been speaking, all of it had seemed to be in some teenage code.

To be fair, talking to the red nephew for the rest of the evening hadn’t been the worst way to while away his time. A physics major, he drilled Gyro on some more obscure theories, leaving him feel more like a guest lecturer than a party guess, but Gyro has always preferred academic settings over casual. And though Fenton wasn’t close enough to talk to, he was close enough to watch, and Gyro had spent a fair about of time doing just that. There had been some drinking game in progress featuring a deck of cards and what appeared to be the player tokens from a Monopoly set. Gyro had never heard of a game that used those objects, but it looked like Fenton kept losing as his old friends clapped him on the back and laughed as he shot back tiny plastic cup after tiny plastic cup of margarita-flavored Jell-O shots.

Normally, Gyro finds this behavior cringeworthy. The whole bro culture, the drinking games. It reeks of mundane conformity. But everything Fenton does he does with grace and charm and the way he had shrugged and smiled, there had been something sweetly endearing about the entire performance.

Fenton’s mother is the first to announce her departure, setting off a chain reaction as coats are gathered and shoes are located and leftovers are packed into plastic containers. Fenton thanks his guests for the gifts as they shuffle through the door, promising to invite them over again soon.

“Maybe I’ll throw a Halloween party,” he laughs, hugging bodies and kissing faces and shaking hands because if anything his former intern is so damn affable. “Make sure to get some Gatorade into her, or some pickle juice. It’s going to be a bad morning.”

This advice is directed at Drake Mallard as he leads the way before his partner and daughter. Launchpad has the young woman slung over his shoulder, passed out from one too many party cocktails. More than one too many, from the looks of it. She had been singing karaoke with the two earlier, chugging down liquor to steel herself. What responsible parents, it’s a miracle she survived to eighteen.

The red nephew is the last to leave, his arms tight around the duck’s waist as he promises to visit the next day. Fenton pats him on the shoulder. And then suddenly the once deafening room is silent, and it is just Gyro and Fenton standing there in the entranceway of the cluttered apartment, surrounded by red Solo cups. Fenton shuts the door with a nearly inaudible click and turns to him, smiling in a more subdued manner than he had been just seconds before. There is something calmer about it, softer. His edges dulled. As if Gyro is viewing him through falling water. His smile is lazy, inviting.

“I’m glad you came,” he says quietly, his back pressed against the door as if afraid one of his former guests may be about to break back inside, perhaps declaring nonsense about a forgotten coat or a lost phone. “It’s…it’s been a while.”

“Of course I came,” Gyro grumbles but inside his heart is in his throat, thudding in his ears. Fenton is not only glad he came, he has gone so far as to seek out a moment of alone time with him. Gyro lightly scrapes his nails against the palm of each of his hands, a nervous habit he’s had since he was a child. “I merely wanted to see what kind of apartment an employee of Waddle Industries can afford.”

“Come on, Gyro,” Fenton replies, the smile melting at the corners. He pushed off the door with one foot, stepping closer to him. As he approaches, Gyro catches the scent of tequila on his breath from the Jell-O shots. He’s not quite swaying on his feet but there is something just slightly awkward about his gait. As if the duck is afraid the floor might not be there to meet him on the next step. “You’re not still upset about me leaving, are you? It’s been three months.”

“Upset about my own student abandoning me to go work at my enemy’s company?” Gyro scoffs, lifting his chin so that he can stare down the duck more noticeably. “No, of course not. What would give you that idea?”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Fenton sighs, visibly deflating. He walks past him, shoulders hunched, and takes a seat on the arm of a nearby lounge chair. “Well, thank you for the present, anyway. I didn’t want to say anything when everyone was still here but it’s probably my favorite of the evening. I have always valued practicality.”

“Thank you for mine,” Gyro replies, swinging the paper bag slightly in his hand. “Though I have to admit, this espresso machine is probably worth more than that electric kettle that I bought you.”

“Monetarily, maybe,” Fenton shrugs, the smile back on his face, but something about it seems wounded. He picks at a loose string on the couch’s arm. One foot kicks lazily at the side of the chair, the other sits on the ground, providing him minimal support. “But who cares about the monetary value of an espresso machine that I won’t use? I suppose Mr. McDuck tried his best, how was he supposed to know I don’t drink coffee?”

“Your loss is my gain,” Gyro says. The bag scrapes against his leg, chafing the tender area where his feathers give way to skin. He has dressed casually for the party, opting for only a long-sleeved green cotton turtleneck and his normal hat. It feels almost weird not being dressed in slacks or shoes or his trademark bowtie, but this was supposed to be a laid-back affair, business casual had not quite been the vibe Fenton had been going for. Gyro isn’t used to going bottomless anymore, he so rarely does, and the skin on his legs has become sensitive over time due to the continuous protection of his slacks. Unfortunately, he doesn’t own any jeans and hadn’t thought of buying any until it was too late. He winces and moves the bag more towards the front, away from his hip. “I still feel bad robbing you of a three-hundred-dollar gift.”

“Don’t,” Fenton begins, but his words are suddenly interrupted by a large yawn. He covers his beak with his hand, always the polite young gentleman that Gyro brought on nearly a decade ago. “It would have just taken up room in the closet. It just means a lot that you remembered I’m a tea drinker, to be honest.”

“It, um, it’s programmable,” Gyro stumbles over his words as Fenton’s comment leaves him feeling overwhelmed with emotions he is not used to dealing with. Compliments, gratitude, those are not sentiments Gyro knows how to respond to so he rambles instead. “You can have it ready when you get up in the morning if you make sure to fill with water the night before. Though it should go from cold to boiling with a minute so if you forget it shouldn’t be an issue. And there is a temperature setting. I, I believe you’re not supposed to serve some types of tea too hot or it destroys the health benefits.”

“Oh, cool,” Fenton replies, yawning again. He reaches up to rub at his eyes. He looks exhausted. Gyro feels like he should be exhausted, social gatherings usually drain him, but his stomach is tight and his throat is tingling and he would love any reason to stay up all night talking to this man.

But Fenton needs his sleep.

There are no kisses or hugs. Just a quick, firm handshake between two adult men as they part.

On the walk back to his car, Gyro makes sure not to touch anything with his right hand. He carries the bag in his left and uses his elbow to press the street-crossing sign and sets the bag on the curb beside his car as he pulls open the trunk.

It’s not enough though. The walk was too long, his gait too slow. Even if he touched nothing the air touched him and when he lifts his hand to his face and inhales, he can pick up very little besides the smell of his own skin and feathers.

The very molecules he breathed robbed him of this opportunity.

He licks his palm anyway, hoping that if there are any little bits of Fenton still clinging to his feathers that he catches them with his tongue and ingests them, joining those microscopic cells of Fenton with his own. Making the younger duck part of him. Melding with him on a basic, biological level.

Maybe worth attending that inane gathering of mediocrity just for this taste.

At least Fenton’s new apartment had been very nice. Nearly as large as Gyro’s own but older and in a thoroughly middle-class area of Duckburg. It probably would have been considered upper-class when it had been built forty years ago. Some of the fixtures are a little dated now. The place was also a little bare-looking inside. Understandable. How can anybody be expected to fully furnish their first home with only the possessions they were able to fit inside their childhood bedroom? He’s fortunate enough to have a couch and television and a real coffee table instead of the milk crates that Gyro had used in his own first apartment.

Of course, Gyro hadn’t been hired on as the head of research and development for a company like Waddle at his age either. Despite the pain of losing him, Gyro can’t blame Fenton for jumping at that opportunity. He would never have had a chance like that if he had stayed under McDuck. Gyro himself would have always overshadowed him and Waddle is a big company willing to shell out cash for real resources and labor. Fenton has nearly full authority to do as he pleases while pulling in decent wages to boot.

Besides, it’s not like the company itself is Gyro’s rival. Not any longer. It’s just an innovative stock-owned company that specialized in next-gen development. Mark Beaks hasn’t been spotted in three years. Most likely dead, or perhaps living incognito somewhere that he’ll never be seen or heard from again. He created Waddle Industries, but it is no longer in his hands, the company has even wiped mention of the renowned criminal from its _About_ page online. There is no real reason that Fenton shouldn’t work there.

Except that Gyro misses him. For seven years, Gyro had walked into the lab every morning and saw that insufferable idiot standing there, greeting him with a large coffee and an even larger smile, and somehow what had once been annoying had become familiar and what had once been familiar became extraordinary. For four years Gyro had gone over in his head again and again how he would confess his feelings towards the insufferable idiot and every day he went in thinking to himself that this would be the day until one morning he was gone.

He still has time. Fenton hasn’t gone far. He might not see him every day but he’s still living and working in Duckburg. Work isn’t everything. In the long run, it might even be for the best, give them a little distance so that they have time to miss each other. Even the best couples need their space.

The bed is new, too. Not a sprawling monstrosity like Gyro’s own but a respectable double to replace the twin in his childhood bedroom. Fenton’s mother so far has kept his old bed, turning her son’s room into one of those workout slash guestrooms that women her age always seem to convert their kid’s bedrooms into when their baby flies from the nest.

“You look very comfortable,” he says quietly, touching the screen of his tablet with the tips of his fingers. The monitor shows a topless Fenton tucked directly in the center of the new bed, the small lamp beside the bed providing the only source of light as he slowly turns the pages of a novel. It’s a warm light, more marigold than sunflower, and his soft brown feathers seem to shimmer with a golden sheen beneath the glow. The entire image is one of peace and solitude.

As much as it warms Gyro’s heart to see Fenton looking so content, he knows it isn’t enough. Fenton deserves better. He deserves to be here snuggled on Gyro’s chest, between his Egyptian cotton sheets and real down comforter. He deserves goodnight kisses and to be gently awakened every morning by Gyro’s soft words and loving hands. He deserves breakfast in bed and cuddles and so much more.

For now, it is just Fenton, his new bed, and a half a dozen hidden cameras,

The only reason he had accepted the invitation to that insipid affair. An excuse to be let inside that apartment. But it hadn’t been the most convenient experience, bugging an entire home that happens to be full of friendly, nosy party goers. The cameras are so tiny that Fenton will most likely not realize they even are cameras if he ever comes upon them – Gyro had hidden them in bottle caps, tea candles, a pair of broken nail clippers. Objects that if he happened to stumble upon the secret location of in the future, he wouldn’t even think twice about them. Hiding them right under the nose of the other party-goers, on the other hand, had been an exercise in stealth.

At least the bedroom door had been right across the hall from the bathroom door so that he had an excuse if anybody had caught him exiting the room.

Thankfully, nobody had.

He sets the tablet on the pillow beside him and snuggles into his own blankets, picking up his identical copy of the same book that the duck is currently reading. They read quietly together, like a married couple comfortable in each other’s silent company. Time passes slowly and Gyro looks up frequently, gazing adoringly at the younger man on the screen. He is absolutely stunning in moments like this. And so few people ever are afforded the privilege of seeing him as he is now.

Even if they could, would they even be able to appreciate the opportunity? Could anybody possibly be blown away by the beauty in the way he turns the pages with his delicate fingers like Gyro is? Would anybody else worship the slimness of his shoulders peeking out from atop the quilts? The quiet little sigh as he adjusts himself against his mountain of pillows? The way the creamy glow of the lamp warms his already soft-looking feathers?

If only he were truly here, reading beside him.

Someday.

Finally, Fenton sets his own book aside and leans over to turn off the light. The camera switches to nighttime mode. Gyro puts his own copy down and instructs his own voice-activated lights to switch to zero percent. He turns onto his side so that he is facing the tablet. He picks it up and presses a few buttons, switching between the numerous cameras hidden within the four walls of the sleeping quarters. The one by the window is perfect, angled at the exact degree needed to zoom in on the sleeping face. He carefully sets the tablet beside himself so that the soft blue glow illuminates the area directly before him.

“It’s good to have you back,” he whispers quietly, as quietly as anybody would to his sleeping lover. “I missed you.”

On the screen, Fenton breathes evenly. In. Out. In. Out. His face is beautifully calm. Smooth. Eyelashes like spider legs against his cheek. Gyro smiles and touches the screen, touches Fenton’s face. None of the cameras in Fenton’s old bedroom had afforded him such a perfect shot of his beloved.

* * *

Chickens and ducks are omnivores. This is a fact. Biologically speaking, both species evolved in a way that made digestion of both plant and animal matter possible. Yet even their ancestors had lived on a heavily vegetarian diet and as they domesticated and adapted to peaceful and organized societies, this part of their diet has been mostly abandoned. The small amount of animal protein required to satisfy the average chicken or duck can be obtained through eggs, dairy, fish, or insects. Basically, modern domestic fowl do not require meat to survive.

This information is common enough knowledge. Which is why so many would wonder why an intelligent, refined rooster like Gyro Gearloose would take this route.

It would definitely make more sense if he were a carnivore. All carnivores must give in and consume meat periodically, the frequency dependent on their species. A carnivore that refrains from ever eating meat suffers from poor health – weak nails, shedding fur or feathers, brittle teeth, weak bones. In the long term, the most primal of the carnivores, the felines, for example, will eventually be met with death.

This is why the law exists.

Strictly speaking, in the United States of America, at least, all felonies are capital felonies.

Not to say that all who commit such crimes are put to death. No, not at all. The majority of these criminals live long, full lives. Full but not necessarily fulfilling. Not with that fear always looming over their heads. That fear which is often enough to deter individuals from offending in the first place. And for those who have? Well, the foreboding presence of death taints their remaining existence. How can one fully live when they never know if this is their last death on Earth? Who would want to risk starting a family with them? Making plans with them? Knowing they could be there one day and gone the next.

They are the Free Space on a Monopoly board.

In lieu of the prisons that house the minor criminals of society, those guilty of a felony are set free to continue on with their lives. Their only punishment being a series of numbers tattooed on their cheek – the location and digits and color dependent of the crime. Left cheek if somebody died, right if nobody did. Red for murder, purple for rape, blue for kidnapping, orange for arson, and so on. The numbers themselves specify more details on the crime – if the victim were a child, if the crime was excessively cruel, if there were multiple victims.

The reds and the purples rarely survive a full year. Even in the supposed safety of their homes, they are never truly safe. This is not a game of Hide-And-Go-Seek, there is no safe zone and the registry is open to anybody curious enough to just request the information.

Nobody can be branded with a tattoo for murdering somebody who already has one because it isn’t against the law to kill a felon. In fact, that is the entire point behind the tattoos. Not only is it perfectly fine for any potential employers to discriminate against a possible employee for bearing the mark, it is expected that a certain number of all felons will be dealt with by the carnivores.

It’s an archaic law and a barbaric one at that. Herbivores, especially, have rallied against it for years. Calling it unnecessary, excessively cruel. Meat is necessary and of course, it makes the most sense for it to be supplied by criminals but why can’t the government execute them humanely and distribute the meat as needed?

How can a non-meat eater be expected to understand the need to hunt, to kill? For many, the hunting is as much a part of the experience as the meal. Others lack the stomach for it and transfer their permits to the professional killers, asking no questions, preferring their meat be delivered in neatly packaged Saran wrap. You can even order it in sausage form.

When Gyro had shown up at the carnivore office and requested a permit, the other people in the waiting room had stared at him. A lanky, mild-mannered avian in glasses, in here? With all the wolves and tigers and owls?

“As a chicken, you, of course, are permitted one hunting permit every twenty months,” the woman behind the counter tells him as she types out his information on the keyboard. She looks over her glasses at him rather than through them. Her eyes are ice blue. “Though I have to warn you that if you plan on selling it for profit and are discovered, you could be facing a felony charge yourself.”

“It is for me,” Gyro assures her, offering up no further explanation in a calm, unassuming voice. He prefers not to leave a lasting memory of his visit to the Office of Carnivore Affairs. There _are_ certain exceptions to the rule – a mother taking out a license for her child, for instance. But one is not required to explain those exceptions. It is a profit-driven concern. They do not need to know of his plans; it is enough to know that he won’t benefit from this venture. Not financially.

“Yes, well,” she drawls to herself, still typing noisily. She’s an older woman, a polar bear in a granny cardigan that he guesses probably has a good twenty years on him. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had been working at this place since before he was born. “Roosters do have a tendency towards vitamin deficiencies beginning in their forties. All the resources put into maintaining those tails of yours. Yours is stunning, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Gyro smiles kindly at her compliment, all suave politeness. Yes, he has noticed his tail has recently deepened in color, a positive side effect of advancing age in his kind. The darker the blacks, the more vibrant the colors, the longer and fuller the feathers, the more attractive women (and some men) find them. Disappointingly, Fenton has not mentioned anything about the change, but ducks aren’t usually as in tune to the biological changes in chickens. They don’t use a tail display to mark their own virility.

That said, Gyro thoroughly believes that Fenton has the most attractive tail he’s ever seen. Just a little brown floofball, more reminiscent of a kitten than Gyro’s own showy plumage. It lacks the sheen, the strength, of his own, but Gyro has fantasized about stroking the little puff of feathers for half a decade.

“Here is your license,” the woman hands him a brand-new hot-off-the-press card with his driver’s license picture printed on one side. An unflattering fifteen-year-old photograph with a haircut that had landed somewhere between “overage emo kid” and “retired munk.” She also hands him a paper pamphlet. “It expires in one year. Make sure to read the pamphlet for successful hunting tips, and please make sure to send in a DNA sample of your game so we may mark them off the registry. No need to ask for names, more often than not they go by a fake identity anyway.”

* * *

“Oh,” Fenton blinks up at Gyro, unruly locks the color of chocolate ice cream falling over one sleep-clouded eye. Fresh from bed, deliciously disheveled from a lazy afternoon nap. This isn’t a guess, Gyro’s phone had shown that less than an hour ago he had been curled up around a pillow in his bedroom, deep in slumber, resembling an adorable plushie more than a man in his thirties with his soft down fully exposed to the cameras. He always sleeps curled around the same pillow, one covered with an atom print pillowcase that he has probably owned since he was a duckling. The younger man glances down at the smartwatch on his wrist, as if concerned he had lost track of time, perhaps setting his alarm clock for AM instead of PM, but no, it really is only late afternoon. “You’re early. Nearly two hours early.”

“I had a meeting nearby,” Gyro waves off the comment and shoulders his way through the door, nearly pushing into the smaller man as he forces his way. Fenton steps hurriedly aside, nearly stumbling over his fluffy white slippers. Ridiculous things they are, wide and triangular in shape to accommodate the average webbed duck foot. They would look juvenile on most men his age, but Fenton looks absolutely charming in them. An aura of familiarity and comfort surround him. He rubs at his eye with the back of one small fist. “It ended early. I figured instead of driving all the way home, sitting around for an hour, then heading back out, I would just see if you’d like to go out a little early?”

“You had a meeting on Saturday?” Fenton asks, a look of skepticism marring his delicate features. He shakes his head, dismissing the question. Instead, he gestures down at his body. He’s wearing his favorite loungewear, a ratty, oversized band t-shirt he’s probably had since he was a teenager that falls over one slim, bare shoulder. It fits like a sleep shirt, reaching nearly too his knees, the sleeves nearly to his elbows, but he hadn’t been napping in it. Fenton had been dozing in the nude as is his usually preferred mode of sleeping, nothing between his feathers and the flannel sheets. Most likely he hadn’t even thrown on the t-shirt until Gyro had rung the doorbell, startling him out of a sound slumber. “I can’t go anywhere right now, I haven’t even showered yet.”

“I’m fine waiting,” Gyro replies as he walks into the living room, pretending to look around for an electrical socket as if he doesn’t have every inch of this apartment memorized. He pats the creased old briefcase at his side, a heavy burgundy leather piece his father had bought him when he had still been hoping his son would follow his path into law school. Little more than a glorified messenger bag when you get down to it, but it gives him an air of professionalism in meetings. “I brought my laptop along to do some work in case you were busy.”

“Well, okay,” Fenton replies, still caught off guard. His voice sounds tight with anxiety. He rings the bottom of his t-shirt in his hands, stretching the already thin material. “But our reservation-”

“Oh, right,” Gyro lies, reaching up to slap his forehead. He turns back around to face him, a look of foolish regret hopefully shining in his eyes. “I forgot about the reservation. You’re right, we can’t go early. I guess we could just hang out together for a while? Catch up some?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Fenton agrees, releasing his death hold on the cotton fabric and reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. The feathers fall limp against his temple, greasy and in need of a washing. He looks like he’s trying to achieve a Titanic-era DiCaprio hairstyle in the 2020s. Only Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera is capable of pulling off such a dated look with so much grace. “I’ll just…I’ll jump in the shower now. Give me ten.”

“No need to hurry,” Gyro waves his hand at him. He’s already making himself comfortable on the couch, pulling out his laptop. He kicks his shoes off and folds his gangly legs beneath himself. The couch smells of Fenton. This is the spot he sits when he watches television or plays on his own laptop. It makes sense, being the one closest to the plug-in, and he is grateful to use that excuse to sit here. “I meant it when I said I have work to do. I have a Tuesday deadline for this paper.”

“If you’re sure,” Fenton says. He glances back down at his watch, already forgetting the time. His t-shirt falls further down, exposing more of his collarbone. Gyro resists licking his lips at the sight of the fragile structure. “Twenty then. I, I like long showers.”

Yes, he is aware of this fact. Gyro has a small camera hidden directly behind the showerhead and another one facing the shower, tacked onto the side of the medicine cabinet, that shows his lithe yet curvy outline through the frosted glass door. It’s dated like the rest of his apartment, the glass etched with the shapes of seashells. Fenton will often stand beneath the hot spray for a good thirty minutes, other times he’ll fill up the tub and lounge for an hour or more, book in hand like a woman in some chick flick, sans candles.

It’s just one of the little endearing habits that Gyro adores about his beloved. Logically, he recognizes that it is a well-documented fact that all waterfowl enjoy submerging themselves in water for long periods of time more so than the general population, but he still files it away in his mind as one of Fenton’s unique peculiarities.

He waits until the shower has been running for a few minutes before he picks up his phone, glances quickly around himself just to make sure the duck hasn’t returned unnoticed and opens the application. The live feed shows Fenton standing directly beneath the head, chin tilted up, eyes closed. His hair is slicked back by the water and his expression lies somewhere between tranquility and ecstasy. Almost orgasmic.

Breathtaking.

But he always is, and Gyro has stuff to do.

Gyro quietly sets his laptop aside.

The first time he had entered the master bedroom had been in an anxiety-laden dash. In and out of the chambers in less than two minutes. With this visit, Gyro takes the time to examine at his leisure, his extensive knowledge of the room from the half-dozen hidden cameras in the area aiding his inspection.

He sets the phone down on the dresser, volume at full blast so that he will hear when the shower turns off. Then he wanders slowly around the room for a moment, reveling in the thrill of being alone in his beloved’s most personal space. He digs his toes into the softness of the carpet – tasteful mauve, gaudy shag. He opens the small walk-in closet and enters, turning and craning his neck up to look at the various items shoved up onto the shelves. A suitcase, a couple of old laptops, what appears to be a sleeping bag.

He runs his fingers over a section of pastel button-down shirts, the thin cotton running over his feathers like water. Neglected pieces, traded in for more appropriate business attire. Some of them are so old he had forgotten they ever existed. Faded with missing buttons, frayed sleeves, a stain on a lime-sherbet green one. The sight of these misfits instills a longing inside of the rooster. These shirts are a relic of a child raised in poverty – sheer unwillingness to toss aside anything used and broken. The last shirt on the bar catches Gyro’s eye. A light shade of canary yellow, reminiscent of the inside of a barely ripe banana. He lifts it by the hanger and holds it up to the light, trying to imagine how Fenton would look wearing it.

He’s quite certain this is the shirt Fenton had worn to his first interview at the lab and then often to work soon after. It’s the only shirt of this specific color in the closet and it looks older than the rest. The cut isn’t quite retro, but it would have been more in style fifteen years ago than seven. It might very well be the shirt the man had worn to his high school graduation.

Would he notice if it went missing?

Maybe, eventually. Especially if he has some sort of emotional attachment to the article of clothing. But Gyro doesn’t plan on allowing that much time to pass. Soon they’ll be living together, and Gyro’s closet will be Fenton’s closet, and he won’t ever have noticed its short absence.

He moves the clothes hanger to the opposite side of the closet so that the duck won’t notice an empty hanger, all the while convincing himself in his head that he isn’t really stealing Fenton’s shirt, he’s just moving it to his place a little ahead of schedule. Because his own condo really is much nicer than Fenton’s apartment and he expects they’ll only be dating a few weeks before Fenton is ready to take that step. A few weeks but with years worth of leadup. Gyro’s own closet is easily double the size of this one and it will be no issue reorganizing it to accommodate two individuals.

After the closet, the walk to the dresser seems a natural progression. He looks through the sock drawer hoping to find something semi-scandalous – photographs of Gyro himself, preferably, perhaps a dildo that he just happens to have not once used in all the time Gyro has been watching him. No such luck. Not even a journal. Just a number of black and white and gray socks and several bars of floral soap. Lavender. He picks up one of the socks and lifts it to his face. As expected, they’ve absorbed the scent. He imagines Fenton’s grandmother probably taught him this little trick; lavender is such an old lady fragrance. The image in his head of a small duckling version of his beloved patiently folding laundry with a teetering old woman is positively heartwarming. He returns the sock to the drawer, it is clean and of no use to him.

Once he’s done with his inspection of the rest of the room, he lays down on Fenton’s bed. It’s unmade, blankets bunched up, one of the pillows discorded on the floor. He swears he can still feel Fenton’s heat from where he had been lying in this spot only ten minutes ago. Gyro buries his face into the atom-print pillow and inhales so deeply his lungs burn.

It both smells like Fenton and it doesn’t. Fenton showers before bed, normally, so the scent is purely his own on the pillowcase. Yet Gyro is also used to all the other smells – hair gel, body spray, toothpaste, sometimes the musky undertone of his sweat. All of that is missing, save perhaps a hint of the sweat, presenting only the most unadulterated version of the duck. There’s something clean about his natural aroma, something reminiscent of baby powder and dried flowers.

Intoxicating and heady like a fine wine, the scent could be bottled and sold to the public. He’s sure it would be a best seller in the perfume department, but then he would be forced to share this experience with the world which is not something he could tolerate. Gyro lays there for a long moment, his head spinning, senses overwhelmed. When he turns onto his back, he feels a sense of vertigo lying there sprawled out on the sheets. The walls are pulsing. He blinks groggily, feeling parched.

Popcorn ceilings.

This apartment really is old.

Fenton will love Gyro’s place, each of the rooms has its own thermostat and the lights self-regulate based upon a number of physiological clues – temperature, heartbeat rate, blood pressure. It’s a self-constructed techie paradise that only Fenton will truly be able to appreciate. His past lovers, the boyfriends and the maybe-dates and the numerous one-night stands, they had all found his apartment entertaining, but they had never understood the intricacies of the design as Fenton will. Not only is he a scientist and a genius, but he comes from such a humble upbringing that he won’t be able to help but be awestruck by the refinery. Gyro will give him a life he hadn’t even imagined possible.

Yet Gyro cannot recall if he’s ever felt more content in his life than in this exact moment. Even this shabby little room with its tacky carpet can be transformed into paradise come to Earth with Fenton’s scent soaking every inch of it. It’s as if the walls themselves have somehow absorbed some of his energy and are now projecting them back onto their guest. Like Fenton is here with him, all around him, embracing him.

What if he stripped down right, slipped between the sheets, and waited here for him? The sheets are coarser than Gyro’s but they feel heavenly against his bare legs and his body is starting to respond. How would Fenton react if he walked in to the sight of Gyro hard and waiting for him, hand lazily stroking his hard cock in anticipation? Would he ask him what the hell he was doing in his bed? Would he drop the towel around his waist and join him? Would he call the cops?

Maybe a bit too forward.

Gyro slides to the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground, and glances around at the floor. Personally, he has always prided himself on his neat and orderly ways. Old boyfriends had accused him of being anal-retentive when it comes to tidiness. It had started arguments – allegations of impossibly high standards in cohabitation conditions. Fenton is one of those chaotic genius types, but it doesn’t matter, Gyro will never ask him to lift a finger once they’re together. He will take care of Fenton like he deserves to be taken care of. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking, Gyro will do it all.

A small collection of drinking glasses is beginning to crowd the nightstand and dirty clothing lay strewn all over the vulgar carpet. There is something almost strange about seeing all the slacks and socks on his floor. In all the time that Gyro has known the other man, he has never been fond of wearing anything besides tops, but the dress code at Waddle is stricter than that of his former workplace. Full work attire is mandatory, and he had asked Gyro for advice early on, admitting that he knew little about bottoms that didn’t consist of jeans or shorts.

 _“But M’ma says pleated pants are mandatory in business settings?”_ Fenton had argued when Gyro had brought up a website on his phone that specializes in drake business fashions and suggested a few pieces that would be flattering to his body. 

_“Your mother still watches 80s romance movies. Believe me, they’ll just look dated on somebody your age.”_

_“But the flared legs, those are just as out of fashion as the pleats.”_

_“They’ll help balance your profile.”_

He recognizes a few of the pieces on the carpet. The exact slacks that had Gyro had pointed out to him, though not in the shades he had recommended. One calls for his attention. Pinstripe. How flashy. Not Fenton’s usual style at all, maybe he had been influenced by some celebrity or a character in some old black and white movie. It must be a new purchase since Gyro does not recall ever seeing him wearing those particular pair of pants. The cameras wouldn’t have picked up the pattern in nighttime-mode, however.

Suits are fine and dandy, but they are not the reason Gyro is inside Fenton’s bedroom. He is here for something a little more…primal.

How convenient that Fenton is such a simple creature. No flaming boxer shorts with dancing tacos or hot green g-strings for Gyro’s love. He was raised by a single working-class mother who knew the pointlessness of splurging on such items. All of Fenton’s underwear are the same – heather gray mid-cut briefs, made of sturdy cotton. Flattering but functional. Supportive but soft to the touch.

One pair out of a half a dozen just lying on the floor. They won’t be missed.

* * *

“If you’re going to rape me just hurry up and get it over with.”

“Rape you?” Gyro’s laugh comes so suddenly and is so bark-like it even surprises himself. He takes a minute to compose himself, chucking as he reaches through the eyehole of his mask to wipe away tears of amusement. His stomach burns with a dull ache. Nerves, anxiety, excitement. Even he doesn’t know. “You really think I brought you here to rape you? Dear God, you really are full of yourself, aren’t you? Believe me, I have no interest in fucking you. I’d rather stick my dick in a vacuum tube.”

“But then why…” Gandra trails off, tilting her head to the side in confusion as she stares at the rooster. Though she may not be as intelligent as her ego allows her to believe, she is not a total idiot either, and she is trying to piece the clues together. Let her, she won’t be able to tell anybody what she’s figured out in a few hours. “You’re going to kill me? You’re a carnivore?”

“Yes, I’m going to kill you,” he confirms, not bothering to correct her on his omnivore status. Because, really, what does it matter if you’re being eaten by a carnivore or an omnivore, meat is meat. He picks up the neatly folded full-body white chef’s apron he had purchased from his local Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and slips the neckband over his head. Calmly, he knots the strap behind his back.

“But why me? I’m so small,” she protests, gesturing to her body with her beak. She has to do it with her beak because her wrists are cuffed together through the rungs on the back of the chair. Dried blood paints the side of her face where Gyro had knocked her out with a hammer to the temple. The tattoos on her face still stand out clearly, the area completely free of feathers – lasered off so they will always be immediately visible. “You won’t get that much meat from me. And I’m not a red or a purple level felon. Why would you target me?”

“Because I want you dead,” Gyro smirks from behind the mask. A leprechaun mask. Extremely easy to find less than a week from St. Patrick’s Day. He had appreciated the grotesqueness of it – mottled skin, red nose, too-wide of a smile punctuated by enlarged, square teeth. Positively Normal Rockwell. Disconcerting yet it blended in so well with the Friday night frivolities. When he had followed her to the club bathroom, he had just been another reveler celebrating a drunken holiday. And she had been just another drunken hussy tottering around on too-high heels. It had been almost too easy. “Fortunately for me, I am allowed to make my wish come true, as long as your body is consumed afterward.”

“Why?” Gandra asks again, her voice breaking this time. She’s been doing a good job displaying a sense of faux-calmness, but Gyro notices the little details – the little shake in her hands, the rate of her breathing. She moves her eyes up and down his lanky body, squinting, then her beady little eyes go wide. She nearly chokes on her own breath. “You’re his boss. The scientist who works for Mr. McDuck.”

Gyro stands still for a long minute, breathing in and out in long draws of hot air. His breath is humid against his face. The tiny slit in the mask that has been cut away to allow for airflow is so small he doesn’t think he could even fit more than the tip of his tongue into it. His breath smells like the Guinness he had been drinking at the club.

“Gearloose, that’s your name,” she continues. She shakes her head, throwing a strand of hair back from her face. Limp, grimy, disgusting. Not even one of the strands crusted with her own blood, just sweat and tears. She is such a filthy creature. “I know you. I electrocuted you once, on my first date with Fenton. You were locked in the closet by those brats.”

“Not the best memory to remind me of when I have you chained up like this,” he drawls, walking past her. His gait is unhurried. He doesn’t even turn to look at her as he says it. Let her believe she doesn’t deserve his full attention. He unclasps and opens the front flap of his burgundy briefcase and draws out a small black velvet box.

“It, it wasn’t anything personal,” she stumbles over her words. A bad liar. Surprising, considering how much time she has spent doing just that. There’s a small whine to her voice, something infantile. Gyro can imagine her using that same tone with hundreds of men throughout her short, pathetic life, manipulating them, tricking them into feeling some sort of paternal urge to protect and nurture her. First that hack Beaks, then pathetic, disgraced Bradford, and now his gullible beloved. But Fenton isn’t stupid, he just naturally sees the best in people. Even people like this scheming succubus.

But she’s barking up the wrong tree with him. He turns away from the small fold out table to face her, showing her the box. She stares at it, befuddled. He pulls one of the knives from it and holds it up for her to see. A butcher’s cleaver half the size of his head. Never used, the edge sharp enough to cut through flesh like it were gelatin. Still, not an efficient killing instrument. He’ll put it to good use after the deed, but he enjoys the mood it sets.

“You can’t,” she warbles. Her entire body is shaking now. Fear or nerves or maybe she’s just cold because Gyro had stripped her completely naked when she had been unconscious, save her underwear. Not that they cover much anyway. Only sluts like her go out wearing panties the size of a booklet of matches, looking to ride the first rich hard-on that points in her direction. “You’re a rooster. That would be cannibalism. Cannibalism is illegal. It’s illegal to kill me.”

“It’s illegal to eat you,” Gyro calmly corrects her. He wets his thumb and wipes a smudge from the cleaver. It’s heavy, solid feeling in his hands. He likes the heft of it. “I could be a professional hunter for hire, for all you know.”

“You’re not,” she fumes, her voice abandoning all the childish sweetness. She’s almost growling at him like some rabid animal. A rabid animal that Gyro will soon put down. “You’re a scientist, not a hunter. You’re just a murderer. It’s because I used him, isn’t it? He offered to give me the money, it’s not my fault I accepted his stupid offer.”

Gyro doesn’t say anything. He slips the cleaver back into the box and pulls out a smaller blade. It’s more of a classic horror movie instrument, something you would see a serial killer in any 80s slasher movie stalking a bunch of promiscuous teenager girls with. Non-serrated, smooth as silk. He runs his finger lightly over the edge, testing the sharpness as he contemplates his next move.

“Take off the mask!” Gandra suddenly demands, loudly and angrily. She kicks at the legs of the chair with the frustration of a spoiled child. Her voice is frantic. If anybody were wandering around the storage unit grounds at this hour they might hear her, but who’s hanging around a storage garage on a Friday night? “I know who you are so take it off! I hate that fucking mask! If you’re really going to kill me, I deserve to see your face before you do it!”

“So that your eye cameras will send a picture of my face to the Cloud?” Gyro asks wryly. He thinks of Fenton seeing his face on those pictures, of seeing him like this. In an apron, holding a knife, perhaps splattered in fresh chicken blood and stained feathers. Fenton is too pure to imagine let alone witness such a spectacle. No, he must be protected from such images. It is as much about protecting Fenton’s innocence as it is his own identity. “I don’t think so.”

“My cameras won’t pick up without my phone,” she insists. She may be telling the truth. She may be lying. For all Gyro knows, she has her own personal 5G receptors hooked up inside her brain. It doesn’t matter, now that she had demanded to see his face, he’ll never allow her to. He refuses to give this whore anything she wants.

“Tell you what,” Gyro says, turning away from her. He sets down the box and picks up a small metal instrument from the table. When she spots the scalpel her eyes nearly pop out of her skull. Pity they don’t, it would make this easier. “Let’s compromise. I’ll take my mask off for you, after I remove your eyes.”

* * *

“More money? I thought you had found a job programming from home?”

Gyro removes his glasses and rubs both of his eyes, pinching the skin right above his beak as he feels a headache already setting in. This is not what he had been hoping for. Usually, when Fenton pulls out the laptop in bed at this hour it’s because he’s going to jerk off before falling asleep. Which, of course, is one of Gyro’s favorite times of the day as well. God, when is the last time she even contacted him? Possibly sometime in those two weeks between Fenton moving out of his mother’s house and Gyro bugging his new place, but the odds of that are rather small. Meaning it’s been at least a good four months since he had last heard from her.

The gnawing feeling in Gyro’s stomach makes him feel like vomiting. Fenton should not be talking to this traitor, this criminal. He shouldn’t be talking to anybody at eleven at night unless it’s Gyro, tucked in bed beside him.

Soon.

“They let me go,” Gandra’s annoying voice whines through the laptop speakers. Most likely she’s been drinking, there is an unflattering slur to her voice. It makes her sound like she’s missing a handful of her teeth. A handful that Gyro would gladly punch out of her traitorous face. “They finally got around to running the background check on me and, well…”

Fenton frowns. The glow of the screen in the dim lighting paints him with an almost eerie glow as if he were sitting over a campfire rather than an expensive laptop. His eye sockets are dark and deep, his cheeks high and gaunt. All an illusion. Fenton is all soft curves and fluffy feathers in correct lighting. She, on the other hand, is more like broken shards of glass. Down to her black and tainted soul.

“I don’t have that much money,” Fenton tries to explain, his voice all soft regret. His eyes are like that of a very small puppy. Adorable yet heartbreaking. She isn’t worth such eyes. Gyro picks up the tumbler of whiskey at his bedside and takes a sip from it, trying to quash the anger growing inside his chest. “It’s expensive living on my own. I can’t afford to pay for both your place and mine now that I’m on my own.”

“You didn’t have to rent such a big apartment,” the woman on the screen huffs, folding her arms on screen as she turns her head away defiantly. Her beak is too big for her face, in Gyro’s humble opinion. Makes her look lopsided. “You live alone, why do you need a two-bedroom place all to yourself? What happened? The penthouse already taken?”

“Come on, now,” Fenton frowns. He grabs his favorite pillow from beside him and hugs it to his chest, propping his head up on top of it so that he can still see the video screen. Why is everything Fenton does so damn cute? It seems almost illegal sometimes, how perfect he is. “That’s unfair. The second bedroom is my office space for when I work from home.”

“For your laptop?” Gandra asks, her voice laced with clear sarcasm. She blows at a strand of hair falling in her face. “You need an entire room just for a laptop?”

“I need a separate room to help my mind differentiate work space from living space,” Fenton replies, hugging his pillow tightly like a security blanket. If only he were there, Fenton could be hugging Gyro like that instead, and he would actually protect him from demons like this woman. Gyro will do everything to protect Fenton once he’s finally his. “It’s a real thing, studies have shown-”

“I live, work, eat, and fuck all in the same room,” Gandra cuts him off. Fenton winces at this proclamation, a look of pain marring his normally beautiful features. “You wouldn’t be able to survive a day in my life. Everybody looking at you like you killed their grandma and nowhere to escape from their eyes but a four hundred square foot studio where the AC doesn’t even work half the time.”

“You’re right,” Fenton gives in so easily. He sounds close to tears. “You’re right, I could never do it. I’ll, I’ll try to do another deferral on my student loans. That should free up some spare cash.”

And keep piling on extra interest. And fuck up his credit. Not that it matters because Gyro will provide him everything he needs, but Fenton doesn’t know that yet. He shouldn’t be throwing away his future on a criminal. Innocent Fenton, not even realizing when he is being used.

“Whatever,” Gandra drawls as if losing interest in the topic. The camera behind Fenton’s head shows her picking up what appears to be a large brown bottle of malt liquor which she draws a long pull from. She wipes her mouth off before she speaks again. Classless, like a drunken father in a stained wifebeater from some 80s movie. “So like, what have you been up to? Waddle figure out how to charge its employees for breathing on company time yet?”

Fenton laughs delightedly, as if her sarcastic quip had been genuinely funny and not demeaning and meant to insult. He rubs at the tip of his beak, scratching an itch. Or maybe he’s just uncomfortable and fidgeting even with the protection of the cushion between himself and the she-demon.

“They let me add another person to the staff,” he tells her, smiling all the while. He has such nice teeth. White, not quite perfect, just slightly crooked in a way that is natural and charismatic because he didn’t come from some upper-middle-class household that had the money to shell out for braces. They have character. Gandra’s teeth are like the teeth of some actor in a chewing gum ad – dull and manufactured. A dime a dozen. Money doesn’t buy you individuality. “She’s a botanist. I’ve been trying to get them to let me hire one since I started but they didn’t understand the appeal of biotech in robotics.”

“Because it’s all bottom line with those suits,” Gandra tells him. She’s not even looking at him now. She’s picked up what looks like an old PSP and is pressing distractedly at the buttons. Imagine having the opportunity to have a face-to-face discussion with this magnificent man and not even bothering to look at him. “Hey, did I tell you I went to Florida a couple of weeks ago? For this nanotech convention. I got a great deal on a last-minute flight.”

“Uh, no,” Fenton replies delicately. “You, um, you said you were too afraid to travel. When I asked you if you wanted to go to the space exhibit with me for my birthday.”

“Oh, that,” she waves off his comment, literally lifting her hand to do so but not releasing or looking away from her game. “That’s different. I can’t return to Duckburg, my face is too well known there. Imagine what would happen if one of your friends saw us walking around town arm in arm.”

“I could come to visit you instead?” Fenton suggests hopefully. Those puppy dog eyes again. Chocolate like his hair but less chocolate ice cream and more Tootsie Roll. Dark and sweet and vaguely sinful. Fenton has the potential deep inside to be an absolute sex diety, just not the drive or experience. Gyro can’t wait for the opportunity to show him that side of himself, to coax it forth from his hidden depths. The first time they make love, he doesn’t plan on letting Fenton out of the bed for at least three days. “I’ve been at the company for half a year now, I think it’d be okay if I took a few days off and drove-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she cuts him off. She screams suddenly, a short angry burst. “Fuck! I died! Ugh. Anyway, seeing you right now would just remind me of my old life, and I need to get used to this one still.” She tosses the PSP aside.

“I, okay,” he relents with a sigh. He pauses for a long moment as if contemplating what he wants to say, but in the end, takes the easy route. “Tell me about the convention.”

Gyro mutes the video at this point. They’ll probably be talking for another hour and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with her droning, querulous voice in real-time. He’ll set it on four time speed and listen to their conversation tomorrow, maybe on the drive to work. Leaving the camera centered directly on Fenton’s face, he sets the tablet aside and turns to a few science journal articles he had agreed to review weeks ago. He’s been finding it more difficult to concentrate on his work lately. Perhaps because Fenton seems to be spending more time in his apartment the last few weeks and not watching him as much as he possibly can almost feels like a sin.

It’s the change in lighting that catches his attention. When he glances at the screen, Fenton is turned away from the camera, stuffing the pillow he had been holding against himself to the side. He picks up the laptop and moves it on top of the pillow.

Ah. Here we go. Gyro knows this position. He unmutes the tablet and changes the camera angle so that he can see the laptop’s screen. As expected, the video chat of Gandra is gone and Fenton has opened up one of his favorite porn sites.

A chicken porn site. Gyro waits on bated breath as he always does, hoping for once in his life that Fenton will click on one of the pictures of a cream-feathered rooster but as usual he seeks out small-framed brown hens. That burning feeling in Gyro’s stomach returns. He’s pretty sure that Fenton never fucked her, he hopes to God he never fucked her. Even imagining it makes him feel like punching something. He switches the camera again, this time to one set further away so that he can see Fenton’s entire body.

The duck has kicked off the blankets. Another one of his predictable habits – he never likes to jerk off under the covers. Maybe he finds it too restraining, or maybe he’s secretly an exhibitionist. Maybe somehow, deep inside, he knows the cameras are there, and he knows Gyro is watching. Fenton’s already hard but the hand on his cock is moving slowly, teasing himself so as to make it last. His other hand is lightly massaging his testicles, teasing them out of their hiding spot. Some men only concentrate on their dick, but Fenton is a sensuous self-lover. Penis, scrotum, nipples – they’re all up for play. Though Gyro has yet to see him experiment with his asshole. That’s okay, many men don’t realize how pleasurable penetration can be. He is looking forward to introducing his beloved to that particular delight. He’ll have the privilege of taking at least one form of his virginity. Imagine the look of shock and awe on his face the first time he has an anal orgasm on Gyro’s dick. Imagine how he’ll beg for more.

Gyro balances the tablet on the pillow beside him in a proximation of Fenton’s own earlier action. Except he doesn’t use his spare hand to fondle his own testes. He uses it to fish out the pair of light gray underwear from the spot beneath his pillow where he always stashes them.

Sadly, the smell is long gone, faded weeks ago. Logically, he knows this, yet as lust begins to fog his brain, he is able to convince himself otherwise. If he just buries his face deep enough into the cotton, there is still a whiff of the duck buried deep in the cloth. This cloth that has touched the most intimate areas of his beloved’s body.

He sets the camera as a split-screen, never able to decide if he wants to focus on Fenton’s body or his face as he gets close. The duck is a vocal sex partner, heavy breathing turning into whining and even the occasional murmur to himself. Words so quiet that Gyro can never quite decipher them but if he watches the way his lips move, he can convince himself they outline his own name.

Even separated by almost an entire city, their love-making is more satisfying than any other sexual encounter Gyro has had in his life.

* * *

Tear ducts work perfectly fine even with the absence of eyeballs. Yes, they exist to keep the tissue lubricated and to flush out any impurities – dirt, pollen, the stray gnat. But the body doesn’t stop to confirm that the eyes are actually present before secreting this lubrication from the ducts. Besides, tears serve another purpose besides the strictly practical. They are a mental valve, the broken dam that releases emotions in a deluge of water and salt.

Yet even an hour’s worth of tears is not enough to wash all the blood from her face. She looks like some demon raised from Hell between the empty, raw sockets, and the blood-stained feathers.

Finally, her appearance shows her true soul.

“Have you finally stopped crying?” Gyro asks, his voice lazy with faux boredom. He’s been picking at a takeout container of Indian curry but he’s too excited to sustain an appetite. His stomach is churning but every piece of paneer or chunk of potato feels like a rock landing in his stomach. He is ready to finish this. The clock reads only ten.

Her response is a soft moan. Gyro sighs and sets aside the Styrofoam tray.

“I suppose you want some painkillers, huh?” He asks her, acting exceedingly annoyed and put off as if this is something she has brought upon herself, which is not entirely untrue. “Well, I don’t have any. I have some whiskey though, that’ll help a bit.”

When he grabs her jaw she jerks away, whipping her head to the side to escape his grasp. It leaves a smear of diluted blood on his hands. She makes a sound like a frightened toddler.

“I’m trying to help you,” Gyro gets out through gritted teeth. He grabs her beak and wretches it open. His hands are large and his fingers long and she is drained and exhausted. She gags as he pours a generous amount of cheap Jack Daniels down her throat. He feels her body rejecting it, the gag-reflex sending the liquor back from where it came, and he forces her beak shut once more. He keeps his fingers wrapped tight around her beak, vice-like. She swallows a second time, sobbing loudly even with her mouth held shut by his grip. Some of the liquor sprays out her nostrils but most of it goes down.

He doesn’t release her until he’s sure the whiskey is well on its way to her stomach. He wipes his hands clean against his apron. She’s coughing, choking on the liquor. Doubtless, some of it probably went down the wrong pipe. He steps away to avoid being sprayed by blood and saliva.

“It’ll help with the pain,” he repeats, lifting the bottle straight to his own mouth to take a swig. He tastes blood. “I thought you’d want to be unconscious when it happens but you’re always such a headstrong cunt, aren’t you?”

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Gandra asks. Her voice is soft but hoarse. Strained from crying and screaming and then more crying. Tears fall freely down her cheeks, no bothersome eyeballs getting in the way, blocking the ducts. The numbers on her cheek glisten beneath the wetness, appearing vibrant and wet. “You could have just killed me instead of taking my eyes.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to die?” Gyro counters. He turns and sets the bottle of Jack Daniels back on the table. It’s starting to go cool inside the storage unit so he grabs a flannel shirt he had brought along and slips it on, over the blood-stained apron and everything. He’ll probably have to throw it out later, but he isn’t extremely attached to the thing. Nobody would ever refer to him as the flannel type and he doesn’t even remember which family member had re-gifted it to him after leaving it hanging in his closet for so many years.

“You’re just playing with me,” she sniffs. There is no fight left in her. Funny how subdued one can become just by having their ability to see taken from them. “I’ve heard of felines doing that, but why are you doing this? You’re a rooster. Are you just a serial killer?”

Gyro balks at the suggestion. Him, a common serial killer?

“I’ve never killed anybody in my life,” he informs her very matter-of-fact. He picks up the curry, makes a face, and sets it back down. “I’m a predatory virgin. I doubt I’ll find any joy in the actual act of killing. But you don’t deserve to live and if I’m the one who has to make that happen then so be it.”

“Then do it.” Is that a challenge or a plea? Her voice is so monotone it could be either.

“Pray to whoever you believe in and just enjoy the feeling of air in your lungs for a couple more hours,” he replies, flopping down into his own chair. “It’s still Friday the thirteenth. I refuse to be that much of a stereotype.”

She laughs. How unexpected.

“That’s why?” Gandra demands to know, some of the fire back in her voice. “You’re letting me suffer like this because of the fucking date? If anything I’d think you’d appreciate such irony.”

“I’m a scientist,” he reminds her, huffily. He glances at the time. This is getting tiresome; he shouldn’t have grabbed her so early in the evening. It’s only been two hours and the longer he waits the more anxious he’s becoming. There is a tremble in his hand that seems to be getting strong. He takes another drink. “Science always trumps superstition, and I’d rather celebrate a science holiday than a magic one.”

“Science holiday?”

“Pi Day,” he says, rolling his eyes. It almost feels like gloating, knowing that it’s something she’ll never be able to do again. He stares at the gooey spheres floating in the mason jar he had brought along for that explicit purpose, filled with half a bottle of caramel-tinted Jack Daniels. “Tomorrow is Pi Day. And you call yourself a scientist. Come on, this really is the best way to honor you. It’s ironically appropriate.”

She doesn’t respond. But she grits her teeth and Gyro smiles to himself, enjoying the display of anger. But it doesn’t last long. All the pain has drained her, and she allows her jaw, as well as the rest of her body, to go lax after less than a minute. Her head hangs, nearly touching her chest. He thinks she may be dozing off – shock or blood loss. But it is difficult to tell if her eyes are closed because of pain or exhaustion. Neither of them speaks for several minutes. Gyro takes another draw from the liquor bottle.

“Do you want another drink?”

She nods slowly. This time she opens her mouth when he touches her beak and allows him to pour it in. She swallows, flinching at the burn as it goes down. He’s kind enough to repeat the action when she whispers “More.”

“I know I took advantage of him,” she admits a while later. She doesn’t turn her head towards Gyro, what would be the point, but she probably knows where he is in the room. She would have heard him if he had moved, the echo of the room hides nothing. She directs the words down at her own shaking thighs. “I needed help and I knew he would help me. A woman does what she needs to get by in this world. I could have taken the same path as he did, you know? I wanted to. But my parents were too traditional, they believed women should only go to school for teaching or nursing or to be a social worker. So I let them keep supporting me and worked a shitty job at an electronics store and did experiments in my free time instead of losing financial backing and my family. Then I got too deep and ruined my life by getting mixed up with F.O.W.L. and all that shit. I’d do it all different if I had the chance to do it over again, I swear.”

“You really think this is about you being a criminal?” Gyro muses. She’s looking for sympathy again. Another trick. How many of them does she have? He doesn’t care about some sob story. “You think I care about your crimes? About what you did to the McDuck clan? If I cared that much you wouldn’t have been my first choice to go after. Your role in all that was pathetically minuscule.”

She’s quiet. Her breathing is even but slow. Very slow. Definitely too much blood lost. Not that it matters. The whiskey is probably hitting quickly, she’ll probably pass out soon.

“I never meant to hurt him.”

Wrong answer. This isn’t about her using him. Not precisely. It would be worse if her feelings for him had been sincere if she had actually shown him genuine love and affection. The fact she obviously doesn’t give a shit about his beloved is the only thing that stopped him from just beating her skull in with that hammer right in the girl’s bathroom.

“He still has a thing for you,” Gyro tells her. It hurts to say that, to admit that to himself aloud even though he knows it’s true. But he hopes it will hurt her even more. Let her last few minutes be spent in regret. Let her know how terrible she is. That she stole a young man’s heart and let him waste seven years pursuing her just to get it back.

“I know,” she admits. Her voice is soft, beginning to slur. Her head lolls away from him, growing fainter. “I like him too. I always have. I wasn’t ready for a relationship yet but someday it was never a lie. I genuinely liked him. I think I could have even grown to love him.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, I already do,” Gyro replies coldly. “And I don’t tolerate competition.”

“Wait,” she breathes, her voice louder. She turns her head to him even though she can’t see him. “You love him? You’re in love with Fenton? This is all because you want him for your-”

His phone vibrates on the table and a moment later a tune follows, starting quiet and growing louder. A tinkling, classic melody in midi format. Gyro smiles to himself as he grabs at it, canceling the alarm.

“Ah, here we go,” he says, picking up the knife. It makes a cold metallic noise as it slides across the table. “I think this just might be the best Pi Day ever.”

* * *

“Gyro, what are you doing here?”

Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera may never have been more attractive in his life than he is at this minute. His beak is red, dry from rubbing at it. His eyes are rimmed with dark circles, the feathers beneath them darkened, damp, and crusty looking. Even with the warm slippers and the heavy robe wrapped around his petite body, he is shivering, teeth nearly chattering, though the day outside is hot and his apartment is downright stuffy.

“You said you were sick,” Gyro replies simply. He walks by him, holding a tote bag in one hand and a CVS bag in the other. “So I brought you some medicine.”

“You brought me medicine?” Fenton mutters quietly, seemingly in a daze. “I mean, thank you, that’s so thoughtful. Here, let me help you with-”

“Go get back in bed,” Gyro commands sternly, pulling both bags out of his reach. Part of him yearns to reach for Fenton, to comfort him, but the more dominant part of his brain isn’t ready for that yet. “I know where your kitchen is, I’ll bring you some tea with honey for your throat.”

“That’s, yeah, okay,” Fenton agrees, pulling the robe tighter around himself. “I’m a little woozy. I need to lie back down.”

Gyro finds everything he needs in the kitchen. He smiles as he touches the handle of the electric kettle. His kettle. The one he had given Fenton when he first moved in. He takes it to the sink, fills it with cold, clear water, and places it back on the warming pad. He sets it to just boiling temperature so that it will be less likely to burn his beloved’s throat or scald his hands if he were to accidentally splash some of the tea.

To be perfectly honest, he shouldn’t know where all the dishes are kept, all the cupboards are solid wood and Gyro has never spent much time in the kitchen, but there is a camera hidden behind Fenton’s spice rack and Gyro has no difficult fishing out both a small glass and a heavy porcelain mug. The large bowl is in another cupboard. Black ceramic with a scattering of pink blossoms. A ramen bowl, most likely, perfect size for soup. He uses a ladle he finds in the dishwasher to fill it and then sticks it into the microwave to warm up. The leftovers go into the fridge.

Fenton is tucked deeply under the covers, everything below his beak hidden, and he looks completely miserable. Yet he sits up when Gyro enters with his arms full. He hurries to set down the steaming dishes, the heat of the bowl burning his inner arm as he balances it with cup in hand. Any amount of pain is acceptable when his beloved needs to be nursed.

“This first,” he instructs, handing his patient the small glass full of fizzing bubbles.

“What is it?” Fenton asks, taking the clear cup. He sniffs at it, but he’s stuffed up and Gyro doubts he catches more than a faint citrus scent.

“Alka Seltzer Cold and Flu,” Gyro tells him. He leans over him and tucks the blanket tighter around his ribcage. He’s so narrow across the chest, just a little lump in the bed, he could be a pillow beneath the comforter. “Night-time formula, specifically. It’ll help you sleep.”

“Does it taste bad?” Fenton asks, his voice small, weak, reduced to a child-like approximation of his normal self. The flu, most likely, not just a cold. Gyro’s had his flu shot but he doubts he will get out of this encounter entirely scot-free. No matter, a little ache and fever is worth it to be given the opportunity to dote over his beloved.

“No,” Gyro assures him softly. “It’s not bad at all. And it will help hydrate you.”

He waits for Fenton to chug the medicine. Before he can lean over to set it down, Gyro stops him, shushing his complaints. Taking the glass from him, he hands him the steaming bowl he had carried in. It smells rich and savory, the sharp spice of ginger cutting through the heavy aroma.

“Careful, it’s hot. Here, let’s put it on this pillow so you don’t have to hold it.”

“Soup?” Fenton asks, looking down into the bowl. It’s rich looking, thick with greasy oil floating on top of the broth. The numerous vegetables peak out brightly colored between thick, rubbery-looking noodles. “Is this homemade?”

“It is,” Gyro confirms, a little smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Here, take the spoon. Eat it all, it will make you feel a lot better. Lots of protein and salt and the ginger should help clear out your sinus cavities.”

The spoon dips into the liquid, stirring so the ingredients that have settled on the bottom are disturbed. The broth takes on a cloudier appearance, the oil that had been sitting on top combines more thoroughly with the stock. There is a confused expression on Fenton’s face as he lifts the spoon and looks at what lies there. Shredded and light brown in shade.

“Is this meat?”

“It’s faux chicken,” Gyro replies. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, careful to not upset the bowl of soup. “Chicken noodle soup to cure a cold. I cooked it from an old family recipe, my grandmother used to make it for me whenever I was sick. I even made the noodles myself.”

“You did that for me?” Fenton asks, tilting his head to look up at Gyro. His voice is clogged sounding but oh so sweet. Full of adoration. Subconsciously reacting to Gyro’s love for him, even if his mind has not yet quite made the connection. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”

“Cooking is just a more primitive form of chemistry,” Gyro brushes off the compliment, but his face is growing warm. This is going so well. It’s like some Hallmark movie, the sweet but socially awkward old friend showing up at the oblivious woman’s house to care for her. After a few days of seeing what real love and sacrifice look like, she falls head over heels with him, and by the spring they have a wedding date set.

Spring is a little too soon in Gyro’s opinion, but he’ll allow Fenton to set the course of their relationship’s progression. If he wants to get married next week, Gyro will rush out and buy the ring tomorrow.

The younger man lifts the spoon to his mouth and blows at the steaming piece of meat sitting in the little pool of broth. Then he slides it into his mouth. Gyro watches him chew and swallow. He waits for the verdict.

“It’s good,” Fenton says, noticing Gyro’s eyes on him. He takes another bite, this time catching a carrot on the spoon as well. The third spoonful is just a sip of the rich bone broth. “Really good. What kind of fake meat did you use?”

“Some brand from this Mexican market I picked up awhile back,” Gyro lies. He smooths the blanket over Fenton’s legs. “I think they use jackfruit, seeing how they did such a good job with the shredding texture. I couldn’t tell because it was in Spanish.”

“It really tastes like chicken,” Fenton says, spooning another mouthful inside. He pauses with the spoon in the broth then, worry creasing his brow. “I, not that I’ve eaten chicken. I meant like the fake roasts, is all, which I’ve heard are close to the real thing. I didn’t mean to imply I have, that I’d ever- This doesn’t make you uncomfortable? That it’s fake chicken?”

Gyro shakes his head. He knows that some people dislike eating anything flavored like their own species, most chickens will even only eat duck eggs and vice versa. Gyro had made the egg noodles from chicken egg just in case Fenton was uncomfortable with the idea himself, even though he prefers duck eggs, personally. More because they’re richer and taste better than chicken eggs, rather than any moral objection to eating something that could have come from his own mother’s body.

“If it upset me, I wouldn’t have made it, would I have?” Gyro assures him, gently, soothingly. The last thing he wants to do is make Fenton worry about offending him. “Besides, I’ve eaten real meat before, that would be rather hypocritical of me to get upset over you eating fake chicken.”

“You have?” Fenton asks, his eyes wide. Gyro feels him stiffen beside him. Did he just tell him too much? He’s not used to being so open with people but Fenton is, well, Fenton. If they’re going to spend their lives together they really should know everything about each other. But maybe not before they’re officially dating. “You’ve eaten meat?”

“I have,” Gyro nods, already regretting the words. He should have known that Fenton would be uncomfortable with the idea. Fenton is so kind-hearted, so sweet, of course, he has never touched real meat. He needs to make sure Fenton doesn’t see him as a murderer, which could sully his view of his old mentor forever. “My father would occasionally pay a professional when I was young, and my mother sometimes serves it at the holidays still.”

“That’s very, um, yeah,” Fenton fidgets uncomfortably. He looks down at the bowl of soup. Inspecting the little chunks floating in the stock. Is he questioning whether or not the meat is fake?

“No duck meat,” Gyro specifies quickly, because how would he even face his beloved with that knowledge in his brain? “Or any type of bird, for that matter. My father only ever paid the hunters to bring back mammal meat. He said it was unnatural for birds to eat birds.”

“That makes sense,” Fenton says. He forces himself to force another spoonful into his mouth, but the action looks almost unpleasant now. Gyro notices a small chunk of fat floating to one side and hopes that Fenton doesn’t. Fake meat does not usually contain fake fat chunks.

“Is something wrong with the soup?” Gyro asks, willing his voice to sound concerned, not accusatory. He softens his face, hoping he looks kind and harmless.

“I, no,” Fenton shakes his head. He picks up the bowl between both of his delicately-boned hands and holds it up for Gyro to take. “Just, my stomach is turning. Can you put the rest in the fridge? I’ll finish it later.”

“You really should eat,” Gyro says, ignoring the offered dish. “You need to stay hydrated.”

“My appetite was off even before you arrived,” Fenton assures him, pushing the bowl closer. The spoon sinks into the bowl, disappearing beneath the surface of the liquid. Fully submerged like a ship lost at sea. “I’m just like that when I’m sick, it’s like this unsteadiness in my stomach. Please, put the rest in the fridge and I’ll reheat it later. It was delicious, I promise I’ll eat it after a nap.”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least,” Gyro agrees, finally taking the bowl from his hands. “The chicken has been in my freezer for a few weeks, I was afraid maybe it had gone foul.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @dasskangaroo on Twitter and my writing name on Fanexus if you wanna hear my ramble on about random fic ideas.
> 
> The idea for this fic originally came from that scene where Huey is trying to feed Scrooge chicken soup. I just thought to myself, what if Gyro actually ate chicken soup all the time and how fucked up would that be? And then it evolved.
> 
> Some parts of this are loosely inspired by Beastars and Zootopia.
> 
> I also drew inspiration from many characters for Gyro here – especially Joe from You, Yandere Chan from Yandere Simulator, and Tomoko from Watamote. For the record, all the horrible shit Gyro thought about Gandra is NOT a reflection of my own opinions – I’m not going to call a chick a scheming succubus because they wanna wear a thong.
> 
> I cut the original ending of this as well – it was going to originally end with Gyro learning that Fenton has started dating Huey and leaving it up to the reader to decide if Gyro was going to go after him next, but when I wrote it, it sounded kind of forced, so I decided it was better without it.


End file.
